


Hogwarts: A Haunting

by Grooot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22278265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grooot/pseuds/Grooot
Summary: Hermione Granger, star employee of the Ministry Spirit Division, is called to Hogwarts to investigate some very strange occurrences.Written for GeminiSister2
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 319
Kudos: 529
Collections: sshg_giftfest





	1. Chapter 1

There were new shoes that pinched terribly on the feet of Hermione Granger. They were red with a dangerous heel and looked glamorous and definitely oozed power. They’d been purchased by Hermione three days early in a fit of excess on the basis of the aforementioned promise of glamour, power and a sense of impractical adult-ness that seemed to shout ‘this woman doesn’t give a fuck’. Plus, a sign in the store had given strong assurances that the beautiful red shoes also had been charmed to never pinch or rub.

They pinched _and_ rubbed. And they made her calves ache.

In fact, they were pretty uncomfortable all round. Hermione frowned a little at the mirror in the Ministry bathroom. The shoes looked great, and her new robe was professional, fitted, and navy. It was all a bit boring, but then again she was a bit boring too. 

That was where the shoes came in. They added colour and life, declared to the world that, navy robe aside, _she_ was not boring and in fact under all the intellect and academic accolades was a Glamorous Powerful Witch who Did Not Give a Fuck.

That’s what they were supposed to do.

But in actuality they just hurt her feet and reminded her that she _wasn’t_ the type of witch that wore tiny, unstable, patent red heels at all. Arriving finally at a decision, she took her heels off one at a time and shoved them in the shoulder bag she was carrying. Thrusting her arm deep inside she pulled out a pair of flat-soled boots. She stepped into them and immediately felt better.

Hermione looked back at her reflection. She was shorter and looked a bit frumpy. And definitely like she had run out of fucks.

_Right._

She grinned at herself. _This_ was more the Hermione she was. Under all the intellect and academic accolades was a frumpy witch who preferred comfort, and rejected the foot-torturing instruments of the patriarchy. Red shoes be damned.

A far happier Hermione made her way towards the Floo, checking her watch (still ticking despite the anti-muggle charms thank you very much) to see whether she was on time for her meeting. She was precisely three minutes early, which was pretty much perfect as far as she was concerned. At the Floo, she tossed in some powder, declared her intentions to visit the Floo of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and stepped into the green flames.

“Hermione!” she heard a voice call with a tone of delight as she stepped out onto a muted, beautifully woven rug.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione greeted the familiar witch, who had walked towards her from behind the large walnut desk. The desk had a strange, twisted appearance with bowed, ornate legs and lifelike carvings of the heads of a lion, eagle, snake and a badger on the front. It was hideous and Hermione loved it on sight.

“Minerva, please,” said Minerva (please).

“Thank you for the opportunity,” said Hermione. “I’m looking forward to what I can do to assist.”

“I am as well,” said Minerva. “Tea?”

“Yes please,” said Hermione.

As Minerva floated a rather lovely tea service onto the desk, Hermione spotted a stack of three books on the shelf behind her former professor.

_Hogwarts: A Haunted History - An Exploration of The Ghostly Inhabitants_  
Poltergeists: Instruments of Chaos or Misunderstood Non-Beings?  
Beyond the Veil 

All bore the author’s name in gold lettering: _H. J. Granger._

“Oh, I see you’ve spotted my background reading,” said Minerva. “They really are excellent.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione. “I enjoyed writing them. I was thinking of doing a new one covering some of my case studies from work.”

“Perhaps you’ll find some inspiration here,” said Minerva as she poured two cups of the steaming, fragrant liquid.

“Lovely,” said Hermione as she took her cup. She raised it to her lips and took a sip, which turned into a small choke.

She glanced up at Minerva in surprise to meet the unamused gaze of her former Head of House.

“I thought you were making tea?” Hermione asked, looking into the cup. It was filled to the bone-china brim with eye-wateringly strong black coffee.

“I did,” said Minerva. “That’s what happens to tea here. And pumpkin juice. And, most annoyingly, my single-malt scotch.”

Hermione took another experimental sip from his cup. It was perishingly strong but good. “So all those drinks turn into coffee?” she summarised.

“Yes,” said Minerva.

“Is Peeves doing it?” asked Hermione. “Or one of the ghosts? Is that why you needed the Spirit Division?”

“We think it’s another poltergeist,” sighed Minerva. “It turned up about a year and a half after the fall of Voldemort.”

“Interesting,” said Hermione. “Is Peeves still here?”

“Yes,” said Minerva. “Still creating havoc.”

“Well that’s even more interesting,” said Hermione. “Poltergeists are generally quite territorial. I’ve only had a few rare cases when an established one will allow another to remain on its territory.”

“Peeves is impossible,” said Minerva. “We cant get anything out of him at the best of times. And on this situation he is worse than usual.”

“So if this new non-being has been here, well, almost ten years, then, what is the issue?” Hermione asked.

“It wasn’t so bad initially,” said Minerva. “A few things here and there. Mostly silly, some more mean spirited, but nothing we weren’t already accustomed to with Peeves. Over the past six months, as we’ve neared the ten year anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat, it has got completely out of hand. The staff are threatening to leave Hogwarts if I don’t deal with the situation.”

“All right,” said Hermione. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She downed the rest of the coffee. No point wasting it.

“Let me show you the modifications to the castle since you were last here. And I understand you wish to stay at the castle overnight?” said Minerva as a flick of the hand cleared away the china.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “They’re less active at night, and much easier to reason with.”

“I have spare rooms in the Ravenclaw tower if that suits,” said Minerva.

“That’s fine,” said Hermione.

They began to walk down the staircase and past the same old gargoyle. Hermione was amazed it had survived the battle, but as they walked nearer she could see the spidery-thin cracks running across its head and torso. It was a good repair, but a repair none the less.

She oohed and aahed appropriately at the refurbished sections of the castle, particularly the Great Hall and _sigh_ the quidditch field. The last location had dashed the spark of real excitement that had bloomed when she’d had been taken past the library. That particular area had doubled in size since Hermione had seen it and she was dying to go inside. As they walked past a Hermione noticed Mrs Pince still perched at the desk, the witch’s mouth set in a stern line despite the well-appointed surroundings. 

“Now _this_ is a beautiful addition,” said Minerva as she entered the castle grounds and led Hermione to the eastern section. “Only opened last month.”

Hermione followed Minerva along a white, cobblestone path towards a traditional walled garden.

“The Garden of Heroes,” Minerva announced.

“I see,” said Hermione.

There were statues. Everywhere.

“Is this Lavender Brown?” asked Hermione as she stopped to examine nearest statue. It was a good likeness of Lavender, who appeared to have been caught mid-spell and of course her carved hair was perfect. 

“This section of the garden has the brave souls, students and other, who died the the battle,” said Minerva. 

They continued to walk, threading across the grass and around the figure of Colin Creevey and his ubiquitous camera. 

“In this section,” Minerva said, gesticulating, “we have the heroes of the Order.”

Hermione was startled briefly when she turned to the left and was face to face with Alastor Moody. He had been carved with his standard fierce expression—the artist had perfectly captured the slight turn of his magical eye.

There was Fred in this garden, too, and Remus and Tonks. Hermione watched Minerva gently touch each statue as they made their way to the final section of the garden,

“This is slightly unexpected,” said Hermione upon catching side of the two statues, facing away from each other and surrounded by roses.

“So sad,” sighed Minerva as she turned to gaze at the statue of Severus Snape.

“It _is_ a bit tragic,” said Hermione in a restrained manner. 

Minerva bent over the roses to take in their fragrance. “Indeed,” she said. “And such a loss for wizarding Britain.”

Hermione had wandered over and stood in front of the statue of Snape.

“To be honest, looking at this statue it was a bloody loss for the witches of Britain too,” she said.

“What?” said Minerva and left the roses to go and stand next to Hermione. “Oh! For Merlin’s sake is _nothing_ sacred?” 

“I take it the statue doesn’t normally look like that,” drawled Hermione. “Shame really.”

Both witches looked at the figure.

The figure stared directly ahead, with a devilish looking smile, but the stone frock coat had been rendered as open and half falling off what was indeed a chiseled (literally _and_ figuratively) chest. Between the quite magnificent pectoral muscles, as the eye followed down (yes please), was a hint of an impressive six-pack. 

“Professor Snape was shredded,” said Hermione. “And kinda hot.”

“This is not Severus,” said Minerva primly. 

“Don’t look at his pants then,” Hermione ordered. “At least let me keep the fantasy alive that it was based on reality.”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Minerva.

There was a carefully sculptured, and prominent bulge in the stone trousers of the statue.

“I’m impressed he could walk,” said Hermione. “Let along undertake a perilous life as a spy. He must have charmed it so he didn’t get a back ache.” 

“I’ll have it covered up until I can deal with the situation,” said Minerva. “This is _exactly_ what I was talking about with the poltergeist.”

“I don’t know if I’d count this one as mean spirited,” said Hermione. “If he was alive Professor Snape would probably have secretly loved it.”

“Well...Maybe,” admitted Minerva.

They walked around to the statue of Albus Dumbledore.

“At least they’ve left his groin alone,” said Minerva in a relieved tone. “And his robes.”

“He has a cock on his face,” Hermione stayed baldly.

And he did.

There was a perfectly carved flaccid penis nestled atop a pair of slightly low hanging testicles right in the middle of the statue’s forehead. The stature appeared to be completely at ease with this, staring out across the beautiful garden with a noble expression. 

“It’s not as impressive as the one on the other statue,” said Hermione. “Perhaps they ran out of stone.” 

Minerva’s mouth worked silently as she processed what was in front of her eyes.

“Right,” the older witch finally said. “I’m going to close off this part of the garden until we can deal with. 

“I should take some photographs of these statues first,” said Hermione as she pulled he camera out of her bag. “For my records,” she said defensively upon catching sight of the powerful side-eye that Minerva had sent her way.

She took a few snaps of the Dumbledore statue, and a few of the Snape statue, and a few of the Snape’s statue’s muscular torso. And one close-up of the enormous bulge....for her records.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “That’s all I need here.”

They left the garden with the unnerving phallus artistic expression and walked back towards Hogwarts. Hermione could hear the rustling behind her as the hedges moved together, cutting all access off to the Snape and Dumbledore statues.

“Let’s take you to your room,” said Minerva. “If it hasn’t vanished or turned into a toilet or something.”

“Sounds exciting,” said Hermione. “I don’t think I’ve encountered such a prolific non-being before.”

“Yes,” said Minerva grimly, “ _Prolific_.”

Their walk to the tower took slightly longer than expected as one staircase turned into a slide while they were halfway up, and only a fast-thinking feet sticking charm prevented them from hurtling back down into a wall. Some of the portraits looked glum as Hermione passed them, as most of them apparently had also felt the wrath of the poltergeist. 

“Amazing,” Hermione murmured as she saw the portrait of Sir Cadogan. He was astride an ostrich, and sporting a glorious blue mohawk hairstyle. He winced ruefully at her as she walked under his frame.

“And here we are,” Minerva said as they finally arrive at a door. Minerva turned the handle and opened the door slightly to peek in. Hermione heard her let out a breath.

“Fantastic,” said Minerva. “It’s still a bedroom.”

“Is it likely to _stay_ a bedroom?” asked Hermione as she stepped into the room.

“I honestly have no idea,” said Minerva, and promptly closed the door.

_Well_ , thought Hermione, this was turning out to be a _very_ interesting case.


	2. Chapter 2

The castle was slightly eerie at night. The sconces didn’t really give out much light and there was general creaking, rustling, and odd noises that sounded neither animal or human. 

Hermione didn’t mind any of it much. In her job, odd noises that sounded neither animal or human were her bread and butter. Or more to the point, her pound cake. Nice, solid and reliable. 

She looked down at the large, irregular crystal in her right hand, a helpful tool that she’d used many times in the past to find what she was looking for. It was glowing faintly with a steady white light, a tinge of purple blooming in the right hand corner. She turned right in response to the direction suggested by the crystal, and began to walk down the corridor, pausing occasionally to look down at the crystal to make sure she was on the right track.

As she walked, the purple colour spread out further and further until it almost covered the entire crystal. When it did, Hermione stopped walked and looked around.

“All right, then. Out you come,” she said firmly.

A small man, dressed entirely in bright yellow and orange, appeared in front of her. He was floating cross-legged in the air and his mouth was stretched in a maniacal grin.

“Wandering the halls at midnight all alone? That’s dangerous!” Peeves said in his unsettling sing-song voice.

“I like dangerous things,” said Hermione dismissively. “I have something for you.”

“What’s that you’ve got?” demanded Peeves as he saw the crystal. “Naughty girl!” he made a grab for the crystal, but cried out when it zapped his hand.

“That’s not for you,” said Hermione, “but I have something else you might like.”

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a large dung bomb.

“It’s the biggest one you can get your hands on,” said Hermione in a wheedling tone. “And it’s all for you.”

“Mine!” Peeves shouted and made another grab for her her hands, but Hermione interceded him with the crystal again. 

He spun away into the air and hung upside-down, staring at her while the small bell on his hand jingled slightly.

“I’d like some information about the other poltergeist in the castle,” Hermione said.

“There’s no one here but Peeeeeeeves,” Peeves sang loudly, and his wild, black eyes rolled around in their sockets.

“I mean in the whole castle,” said Hermione. “Not just in this hall.” 

“Miss Granger wants a friiiiiiiiieeeeeeend,” Peeves howled with laughter. “She’s got none. Poor ickle Granger.”

“Right. No present for you then,” said Hermione and put the bomb back in her pocket.

Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry at her and promptly vanished. 

Hermione sighed. She hadn’t expected to get anything out of Peeves, but had tried just in case. Given how territorial poltergeists were, she was secretly hoping he would decide being helpful was the lesser of two evils as it would given him his castle back. 

No mind.

She’d keep going with her back-up plan, which meant she’d probably stay another night or so. She'd interview the other professors about what they’d seen and experienced, so she could try and understand where the new entity may have come from and what it wanted.

There was a gust of icy breeze down the hall, and Hermione realised she’d walked all the way to the Astronomy Tower. It was a clear night, so she decided to go to the tower and look at the stars before she returned to her room. As she walked onto the beautiful mosaic floor, she saw a small figure already standing there, looking across the grounds. Within the darkness there was a tiny red glow of light and the smell of tobacco wafted in the crisp air. 

Hermione walked closer and there, to her surprise, was the ugliest house elf she’d ever seen, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.

“Hello,” she said.

The elf turned to her and its large, bulbous eyes blinked twice before it sighed heavily.

“Oh. It’s you,” it said with disinterest, and turned back towards the speckled sky.

“It _is_ me, I’m afraid,” agreed Hermione. She was used to getting a fairly cold reaction from the elves at Hogwarts. They’d never completely forgiven her for S.P.E.W., for whatever reason.

“I’m Hermione,” she said. It was probably unnecessary, as the elf obviously knew who she was, but it was only polite to make the introductions, after all.  


“Congratulations,” the elf said. 

She watched it take another drag on the cigarette before blowing out a cloud of smoke which twisted into a spiral and spun away in the night air.

“I’ve never met an elf that smoked before,” said Hermione. “Are they Muggle cigarettes?”

“No idea,” said the elf, still with its back to her. “I just think about them and they appear.”

“Amazing,” said Hermione. “So you don’t actually have to cast a spell to conjure anything?”

“Not all spells are defined by how witches and wizards conceptualise them,” said the elf.

“Good point,” said Hermione. “I don’t really know a lot about elf magic.”

“Obviously,” said the elf.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. She’d never met an elf before that was so outrightly waspish. It was a nice change from the usual obsequious posturing. She looked more closely at the elf. It was wearing what looked to be a black pillow-case. Its large pointed ears drooped slightly at the ends.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a poltergeist around the castle?” Hermione asked as she walked next to the elf and leant on the parapet.

The elf turned to her and Hermione noticed it had a terribly large nose, even for elf standards. It gave her an innocent look that she was used to seeing on the face of George Weasley. The type of innocent look that only the deeply guilty could evoke. 

“You mean Peeves?” the elf said. 

“I mean the new one,” said Hermione. “Have you noticed anything odd around the castle? Any pranks that you don’t think Peeves did?”

The elf lifted the cigarette to its mouth and took a long, reflective drag.

“Nope,” it finally said.

“Well, thanks anyway,” said Hermione. “I’m off to bed. Enjoy your lung exercise.”

The elf just turned back to its earlier position of smoking and watching the snow-covered grounds. 

Hermione was excited to discover when she returned to her room that it had stayed as a room, and she still had a bed, a pillow and a blanket. That was all she really needed. She placed four crystals around her bed (one could never be too careful about non-beings) and climbed under the blankets. She was asleep before she could finish counting to thirty. 

*

The morning winter sun made a valiant attempt to stream into her window, and Hermione stretched out in the bed, wincing as the joints in her elbows and wrists cracked. She was paying the price for almost a year spent malnourished, _and_ from being involved in countless disastrous hijinks. 

She liked to think of a lot of her experiences as hijinks, as it made them seem less terrifying, and she was hoping that it would mean she’d stop having nightmares. Ron called them “adventures,” and Harry basically didn’t talk about them at all. Everyone had their own coping strategies. 

She dragged her complaining body out of bed, gathered up her crystals, and had a shower (an exciting new addition!) before it decided to turn into a water-buffalo or something. By the time she had convinced her hair not to stand at ninety degrees to her head, she was already late for breakfast. Being late to breakfast meant that she was gifted with the sight of the long head table full of glum-looking teachers. 

“Hello!” said Hermione brightly as she pulled up a vacant chair next to Horace Slughorn.

“Ah, Hermione,” he said. “Minerva said she’d hired you to assist us. And thank goodness she did. It's getting worse every day.”

“I’m hoping to get it sorted quickly,” said Hermione. She peered over Horace’s shoulder at the dish in front of him. “What are you having?”

“Egg-white omelettes and kale,” he sighed.

“How extraordinarily healthy,” said Hermione. “I certainly don’t remember breakfast being like that when I went to school here.” 

“I asked for bacon and eggs and sausages,” Horace said mournfully. “And this is what I got. Minerva,” he said waving an hand towards a the witch whose expression could cut glass, “ordered kippers and got quinoa porridge.”

“Absolutely amazing,” said Hermione in delight. “This far the most fascinating case I’ve ever worked. What a fantastically interesting non-being you’ve all picked up.”

“We thank our lucky stars every day,” Horace sighed. He stabbed a fork regretfully into the pile of steaming greens.

“Let me try,” said Hermione. “Um, boiled eggs on toast, please!”

She sat there, quivering in anticipation and a bowl appeared in front of her. 

“Is that more quinoa?” Horace asked. “It seems to be particularly found of it.”

“I don’t think so,” said Hermione. She dipped her spoon into the bowl that had sliced cucumbers placed on top, nestled next to a serving of kimchi, and all glistening with dots of chilli oil. “It’s congee,” she exclaimed delightedly. “Delicious!” 

“That’s the first time anyone has even been happy by what they were given in years,” said Horace. 

“I got a drink that appears to be made predominately of grass,” bemoaned Sinestra, sitting to Hermione’s right. 

“I see. Maybe its some kind of smoothie,” Hermione suggested, eyeing the goblet of thick, green liquid.

“I only asked for a piece of toast,” she said. “I thought if I went simple, it would be fine.”

“Incredible,” said Hermione. “What other things have happened that you’ve experienced?”

“Well just the other day I had brewed Amortentia for my sixth years, and when I asked them to come over and smell it, it had turned into the Draught of Living Death! Four of them keeled over before I noticed,” Horace said.

“The Quidditch field turned into a sheep paddock this morning,” Sinestra said. “And we haven’t been able to change it back. Hooch is apoplectic. Minerva is furious, since her Gryffindors were winning the Quidditch cup.”

“The sheep are sweet, though,” Horace sighed. “And in spring we will have lambs!”

“I think they want the field back,” said Sinestra. “Adorable lambs aside.” 

Hermione shrugged. Quidditch fields were by the by in her eyes. But she could see how it would be annoying. Harry, Ron, and Ginny, on the other hand, would have immediately died of a terrible Quidditch-withdrawal attack. And they could have all been buried with their beloved brooms. In fact, she could have buried Ron with one inserted fair up his arse (as she hadn’t quite forgiven him for dumping her). 

“Speaking of adorable,” said Horace, “you should definitely visit Hagrid.”

“After breakfast,” said Hermione, who wasn’t exactly sure whether the word ‘adorable’ really sprang to mind when picturing Hagrid, but she was prepared to keep an open mind on the matter.

As promised, after breakfast she walked down the cobblestone path to Hagrid’s hut, which she was surprised to discover still looked the same as it did when she was at school. It had sustained substantial damage during the final battle, but it hardly looked any different. Fang was lolling half-asleep on the steps with copious amounts of drool leaking from his mouth, and a thin plume of smoke spiralled into the sky. 

Hermione knocked on the familiar wooden door and it was wrenched opened. Hagrid’s enormous beaming face filled the doorway.

“‘Ermione! Professor McGonagall said you were coming back. Come in!” Hagrid said. He ushered her inside and bustled away to put on some tea and set a plate of teeth-snapping rock cakes on the table.

“Thank you,” said Hermione politely. 

“Pleasure,” said Hagrid. “I miss seeing you kids around. ‘Ow’s Harry?”

“He’s good,” said Hermione. “I think Ginny is pregnant again. She’s away with the British team at the moment.”

Hagrid hummed happily and placed the tea in front of Hermione. She picked up the large mug and took a sip. As expected, it was the same coffee she’d drunk with Minerva.

“Sorry about the tea,” Hagrid said. “I’m ‘aving trouble brewing it properly.”

“I think everyone is,” said Hermione. “Is anything else strange happening?”

Hagrid drummed his fingers on the table. “Now that ye’ mention it… a bit.”

“Like what?” Hermione asked.

“Well. I got another lovely little dragon,” Hagrid said wistfully. 

“Um, Hagrid,” said Hermione nervously. “Is it in the house? This incredibly _flammable_ house?”

“It’s in the basket,” Hagrid said. He lifted a basket off the floor and placed it gently on the table. Hermione looked at him and he motioned towards the basket. She lifted the lid and peeked in. The most divine chinchilla kitten lay curled up on a blanket, purring. It looked up at Hermione and mewed a tiny little mew that broke into a thousand pieces of rainbow inside her heart.

“Oh, how precious!” Hermione said. “Where’s the dragon?”

“That _was_ a dragon yesterday,” said Hagrid. “It also happened to the Skrewt I found and the injured Acromantula I was looking after.”

“What happened to them?” Hermione asked.

Hagrid put another basket on the table. A bemused Hermione opened it to discover two even more impossibly cute kittens inside.

“They all turned into kittens?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “I like cats. But I like Skrewts more.”

Hermione took out her notebook and made some notes. Just in case, she pulled her camera and took some photos. She absentmindedly picked up a rock cake before her sense of self-preservation kicked in, and she took a bite before she realised it. Her teeth sank into the most fluffy and delicately spiced ginger cake she’d even eaten. She looked down at her hand in surprise. The rock cake was gone, and in its place was something edible.

“Me cakes are funny, too,” said Hagrid unnecessarily.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione was on her last sweep of the castle, it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, and she was now almost certain there was only one poltergeist in the castle. The air was so cold in the dungeon level of Hogwarts that her breaths puffed out in little white clouds. She amused herself briefly by pretending her wand was a cigar and taking a few imaginary drags. 

As she strode along, huffing her little, white clouds, she noticed a figure ahead of her at the end of the corridor—where she knew the entry to the Slytherin Common room was hidden.

The elf she’d seen the night before at the Astronomy Tower was standing in front of a large oil painting. As Hermione neared, she saw it was an enormous portrait of Professor Snape. This one, unlike the other headmaster portraits, was not magical. He glowered down from the painting in a disconcertingly realistic manner. Hermione decided that the artist must have been a former student that had said something exceptionally stupid to have captured the expression so perfectly.

“Hello again,” she said.

The elf turned around as she spoke, then narrowed its large eyes when it saw her. “You’re still here, then.”

“I am,” said Hermione.

The elf turned back to the portrait. Hermione stepped towards the elf and stood next to it, also looking up at the painting.

“Did you know Professor Snape?” she asked.

“Yes. He was a git,” the elf said.

“Pretty awful how he died,” said Hermione. “Even for a git. Which by the way, he wasn’t. He just didn’t tolerate stupidity, and unfortunately, a lot of people are stupid.”

“Do you need something?” asked the elf in an irritated voice. “A Devonshire tea? A cheese soufflé? A beef Wellington?”

“No,” said Hermione.

“Well, then, sod off,” said the elf.

Hermione laughed. “You are the angriest elf I’ve ever met,” she said. “And I know the elf that worked for the Black family, so that’s saying something.”

The elf heaved a long, heavy sigh. “I suppose you want me to hit myself over the head with something now?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not really. I‘m used to elves being angry at me, and I don’t condone self-flagellation.”

The elf looked thoughtfully at her. “Yes, that’s right. The knitted hats.”

“Don’t remind me!” Hermione said. “The road to hell and good intentions and all that.”

“Why _did_ you give them hats?” asked the elf.

“Oh! I thought they were being mistreated,” said Hermione. “No pay, no holidays, beating themselves up. Lots of things.”

“Hmm,” said the elf. “Interesting.”

“How so?” asked Hermione. She then suddenly realised she was only talking to the empty wall and the portrait with its unspoken exasperation. 

The elf had vanished. 

Hermione was putting the crystal away in her bag when she remembered something strange the elf had said. The elf had said “they.” As in, the elf had questioned as to why had she given hats the “them,” instead of saying “us.” 

It _was_ strange, wasn’t it? 

She tapped her wand against her lower lip as she thought. The elf was definitely different from any other elf she she’d met, although that didn’t necessarily mean much, beyond the fact that she was always interested when things were different. Hence the job within the Spirit Division and writing three books while everyone else was getting married and creating small humans, or at least spending a lot of time _trying_ to create them. 

There was a consistent truth at Hogwarts that all students were inducted into the first night as a firstie. The kitchens _always_ had a stack of snacks, no matter the time of day or night. It wasn’t unusual for Hermione, sick of studying under the blanket after being kicked out of the library by Irma Pince, headed there for late night fortitude. 

Teenage Hermione and adult Hermione were united in their love of a midnight snack. 

Because of this love, Hermione decided to head for the kitchens to raid one of the various stock piles of food she knew to be awaiting her. Upon arrival, her morale was raised considerably when she spotted the shelves in the larder groaning with the many baskets that were traditionally filled with fruit, biscuits, and sweet buns. 

Stomach rumbling, she peeked into the first basket.

_Ah_. A heaving, wriggling mess of live Flobberworms. _Okay._

Hermione lifted the lid of the second basket and immediately replaced it. The basket, as far as she could tell from her brief, adrenaline-surged glance, was filled with Boomslangs.

“Maybe I’m not hungry after all,” Hermione told herself firmly.

“Are you looking for something?” asked a voice next to her.

Hermione jumped a little and turned towards a small house elf, wearing a pink-and-white striped pillow-case, and looking curiously at her. She was reasonably sure she recognised the elf from her days at Hogwarts. Dippy, perhaps? 

“Oh! I mean, hello! I was just looking for something to eat. Something other than live animals,” she added, just in case it was a new fad diet she’d completely missed on her normal fare of crisps and pints of bitter. 

The elf, who Hermione was now positive was named Dippy, stared at her. Then it carefully looked in one of the baskets. It clicked its tongue in apparent irritation, and grumbled to itself.

“Naughty Snappy,” she heard Dippy say.

“Is everything all right, Dippy?” asked Hermione, taking a punt she remembered the right name.

“It’s fine now, Hat-Girl,” Dippy said. Hermione groaned. They were still mad about _that_ , then. 

Hermione undertook a (let’s be honest) quite skeptical investigation of the basket closet to her, which was now filled with date scones. She nervously grabbed one and took a tentative bite. Buttery, datey, deliciousness. She grabbed two more. Just in case they changed back. She suddenly wondered if they did, would she have bits of half-digested snake in her stomach? She decided to stop that train of thought as it was chugging steadily towards Vomitsville. 

“Thank you very much,” she said to Dippy, who nodded at her and vanished.

Hermione sat down at the large, wooden table that stood in the middle of the kitchen. It promised all manner of British homeliness to homesick children. It promised sticky date pudding. It promised Eton mess. It promised a full English fry-up with fried bread and vinegar on the side. It promised to fix any school-related problem with lashings of jam and cream. It had delivered quite a lot of calorific salve to Hermione during her school years.

As she consumed her scones, she examined her crystals. 

“What are those?” asked a voice next to her.

Hermione turned and it was the Elf in Black, looking at the crystals with an expression of curiosity. 

“Alexandrite,” said Hermione. “I’m piggybacking on the natural tendency of the stone to absorb light and change colour. But I linked it to the wavelength in the non-visible spectrum that poltergeists emit.”

“An approximation of creativity,” said the elf. “I’m almost impressed.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione.”I’ve patented the idea. Just in case you were tempted.”

“Alexandrite is incredibly rare,” said the elf.

“And incredibly expensive,” said Hermione ruefully. “I spent almost half a year’s salary buying them.”

“Peeves didn’t like the crystal,” the elf observed.

“No,” said Hermione. “Non-beings appear to be allergic to them. I have no idea why. But it’s useful.”

“How’s your hunt for the other poltergeist going?” the elf asked. 

“Reasonably well,” said a Hermione. “In that I don’t think there is one.”

“How so?” asked the elf.

“The pranks are too sophisticated, and too consistent across contexts,” she said.

“That’s a shame,” said the elf. “Guess you’ll be off, then. No point staying around.”

“Well,” said Hermione. “I definitely agree that whatever is responsible is _not_ a non-being. So you are right in saying that it isn’t my speciality.”

“Better luck in your next job,” the elf said breezily. 

“I am writing a report,” said Hermione. “My assessment is that the culprit is in the castle.”

“Very sensible,” said the elf. “Occurrences _in_ the castle caused by someone _in_ the castle. Brilliant, really. You’ve a real knack for this.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione as she finished her last scone and brushed the crumbs from her robe. “Because I think it’s you.”

The elf looked at her.

“Ah,” it said.

“Are you unhappy?” asked Hermione “I’m a dab hand at a hat of scarf if you need an exit. Not every elf likes to serve.”

The elf sat next to her, rested its forehead on the table and snapped its fingers. An enormous tankard of ale appeared on the table. Hermione blinked in surprise as the elf lifted its head, picked up the ale with both hands and downed it.

“Steady on,” she said. “That’s a lot of alcohol for a reasonably small body mass.” 

“The metabolism of an elf is different to humans,” the elf said. “It actually won’t do anything at all. It doesn’t matter how much I drink.”

“I remember there was a house elf who was drunk and depressed at some stage,” said Hermione. “I think she got fired or freed or something, and was drowning her sorrows.”

“There is elf wine,” said the elf. “But I’m not sure how to make that. I just want a drink and all I can make is pale ale.”

“I think you’re distracting me,” said Hermione. “Why are you doing all the pranks? I have a theory.”

“Is your theory to mind your own business?” asked the elf in a petulant tone.

“Goodness, no,” said Hermione cheerfully. “That’s not like me at all.”

There was a funny barking laugh, and Hermione looked towards the elf. It shrugged.

“It was funny,” it said. 

“I’m not used to people finding me funny,” said Hermione.

“I’m not a person,” countered the elf. “I’m an elf.”

“We’re all magical beings, though,” said Hermione. “Except non-beings I guess. They’re magical non-beings.”

She trailed off when she noticed the elf staring at her.

“That’s not the point though, is it?” she asked. “I went off topic, I think.”

“I don’t know,” said the elf. “I don’t think anyone’s said more than ‘another loaf of bread’ or ‘pumpkin juice’ to me in years. Conversation isn’t a strong point of mine.”

“What it make you feel better if I asked for a loaf of bread and pumpkin juice?” she teased.

The elf sent her a dark look.

“Fine,” she said.”It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. How about a wine? Elf wine,” she clarified.

The elf clicked its fingers and a bottle of wine appeared on the table. It looked at its fingers with a surprised expression. While the elf was doing that, Hermione filled her two goblets and passed it one. She watched the elf take an enormous gulp, followed by another, and one more. Then it sighed a long sigh, which sounded like years in the making, and sank down in the chair.

“Better?” Hermione asked as she sipped from her own cup.

“Wonderful,” said the elf. Its cheeks had gone a bit pink, as had the tips of its ears. Hermione hid a smile behind her goblet.

“So you could summon it if someone else asked you to, just not if you wanted it yourself,” she observed.

“Must have been it,” said the elf taking another slug from of wine. It waggled the empty goblet at her and she took the bottle of wine and refilled the goblet. 

“Were you Professor Snape’s elf?” asked Hermione. “I mean. I saw you at his portrait. And you seemed to have known him. Are you angry about his death?”

“Angry probably isn’t the right word,” said the elf.

“I was a bit angry,” said Hermione as she sipped her drink. “I brought a wrongful death suit against the Order of the Phoenix. In the Wizengamot. Didn’t go very far, though.”

The elf stared at her. “Whose wrongful death?” it asked.

“Professor Snape’s,” said Hermione. “Why would you have a spy and no measures to secure the spy’s extraction should he become compromised or at the very least, endangered?”

The elf gaped at her, its large, bulbous eyes slightly crossed. She blushed under the focus. Everyone had told her it was stupid. And now she could add house elves to the ‘everyone’ list.

“Anyway. I lost. It doesn’t matter. So as I was saying, did you work with Professor Snape?” she said, trying to get back to what she wanted to know.

“No,” said the elf as it lifted its goblet again to its lips. “I _am_ Professor Snape.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione, who decided she had just gone completely mad. “I thought I heard you just say you _are_ Professor Snape.”

She put her goblet of elf wine carefully on the table and pushed it slightly away from her with a kind of nervous wobble. She glared at the nearly empty bottle of wine at the table fiercely, blaming it wholeheartedly for her lapse in sanity.

The elf in question slumped forward onto the table at her reaction.

“I did,” said the elf. “I am. I _am_ Severus Snape.” 

“No, you’re not,” Hermione said reactively. What the hell was going?

The elf sighed loudly and leaned back the the chair. Its head flopped back on its slight neck, sparse strands of black hair falling across its closed eyes. Its hands hung loosely from its spindly arms.

It looked the very picture of defeat.

“Are you really?” Hermione finally asked.

“Yes,” the elf said in a frustrated tone, without opening its eyes.

Hermione decided to forgive the wine its former transgressions and reached across for the formerly offensive goblet. She drained the contents and sat in the chair, cradling the empty cup for a number of minutes.

“Okay,” she finally said. “How?”

The elf opened one eye.

“How… _what_ exactly?” it asked.

“How are _you_ Severus Snape?” asked Hermione. “Given that he was a person and is dead, and that you are an elf and alive.”

The elf closed the eye and sighed again. “Well, I was bloody well bleeding to death, wasn’t I? I asked Hogwarts for help, and it apparently thought the best option was the house elves.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Hermione, who thought that sound incredibly unreasonable.

“House elves have a different metabolic rate,” said the elf. “And incredible regeneration abilities. It’s why they don’t mind a bit of self-flagellation now and then. It doesn’t really hurt them and they heal very quickly.”

“I would believe that,” Hermione said, “if I hadn’t seen a house elf killed by a knife wound.” 

She hadn’t thought about Dobby in years.

“Interesting,” mused the elf. “It must have been a cursed blade, some seriously bad magic to have killed an elf.”

“Maybe,” said Hermione. It was certainly not unlikely that Bellatrix would own something like that. And Hermione’s own cuts from the knife used to slice her skin never really healed properly. 

“In any case,” continued the elf, “they decided that I was dying, so decided to change me into an elf to save my life.”

Hermione burst out laughing. 

The elf sprung up, both eyes open and bright with fury. “I’m glad it’s so _hilarious_ to you. Very funny. What a joke!”

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione. “But I’m just thinking of the time that Hogwarts sent Fawkes to heal Harry. Neville got the Sword of Gryffindor, and you got the elves.”

The elf stopped abruptly, mouth screwed up in thought, before it laughed, too.

“Oh, well,” it said. “Fawkes buggered off after Dumbledore’s er .. well after he passed away. And I wouldn’t want the stupid Gryffindor Sword anyway. How would that help? Cutting my own head off?”

“So If you _are_ Severus Snape, and you _did_ get changed into an elf, then why haven’t they changed you back?” asked Hermione.

“When it first happened,” said Professor-Elf-Snape. After calling him this in her head once, Hermione immediately decided never to refer to him as so again. “I was so tired that I just went and relaxed for a while. Sleeping. Reading. I also thought it was probably a good thing, as I didn’t particularly want to go to Azkaban.”

“Good point,” said Hermione. “Lucius Malfoy went there and his hair fell out from stress.”

Snape looked at her. “Did it really? Now _that’s_ a enticing image.”

“Draco got him some wigs to wear,” said Hermione. “It grew back after he was released.”

“Fascinating,” said Snape. 

“Well I certainly got some rich, delicious karmic value from it,” said Hermione. “Elitist, supremacist twat.”

Snape snorted a laugh. “You’re not one that’s moved by a pretty face, then?”

“I learnt my lesson from Lockhart,” said Hermione a bit ruefully,

“Ah,” said Snape, “excellent point.”

Snape reached a thin arm past Hermione and tipped the last of the wine into each of their goblets.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem,” he said a little stiffly. “After a while, everyone was wandering around the castle mourning me, and saying how they’d always trusted me, and and how I was a hero.”

He stopped to take a gulp of wine.

“Surely that would have been the perfect time to come back!” Hermione said.

“Perhaps,” said Snape. “But it occurred to me that suddenly I was far more popular in death than I had ever been in life.”

“Oh,” said Hermione.

“Exactly,” said Snape. “Pretty bloody depressing.” 

“So you decide to stay an elf?” Hermione guessed.

“No,” said Snape. “I decided to be depressed for a year and lay around smoking and reading students’ diaries.”

“And after that?” asked a transfixed Hermione.

“After that, I tried asking the elves to change me back. But they wouldn’t. They said it was for my own good. That life as an elf was infinitely superior to anything else.”

“Er,” said Hermione. “Is it?”

“Well, they’re immensely powerful. Not limited by the use of wands. Astonishingly long-lived and the aforementioned regeneration ability,” said Snape. “It could be worse.”

“I have a lot of other questions about elves,” said Hermione. 

To which Snape rolled his eyes. “No kidding,” he snarked.

“But they can wait,” she continued blithely, ignoring his comment. “So why _do_ you want to be changed back?” 

“Because I’m a man!” Snape shouted. “I’m an ugly, nasty git of a man. But I’m a man nevertheless, and I want my ugly, nasty git body back!”

“Of course you do!” said Hermione. “And by the way, we really need to have a serious talk about self-esteem later, but firstly, why didn’t you go to Minerva? Or Filius? Or anyone, really?”

“I did!” said Snape. “And big fucking surprise, no one takes house elves seriously. Every time I tried to tell someone, they kept talking over me to order food or get something cleaned. Then when I did finally manage to engage in _actual_ conversation and told I them who I was, they thought I was a house elf gone mad from the final battle!”

“Right,” said Hermione. “So then you started the pranks.”

“Ah,” said Snape.

“The pranks?” repeated Hermione.

“First it was a bit of fun, then it was because I was bored. And then it was because I was angry. And now it’s because I thought it would get someone’s attention,” said Snape.

“It worked,” said Hermione. “And here I am.”

“I thought it would get the attention of someone who could help me. Not _you_ ,” said Snape. “No offence, Miss Granger.”

“Lots of offence taken!” said Hermione. “And you may as well call me Hermione. It’s just feels too weirdly deferential when you’re in the house elf body.”

“Excuse me for not having extensive faith in your desire to help me,” huffed Snape. “Given the deep and abiding affection we held for each other,” he added sarcastically.

“I liked you,” said Hermione. “You just didn’t like me!”

“You liked me?” said Snape with an expression of deep surprise. “Ah.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hermione. “Lots of people don’t like me.”

“Me, either,” said Snape. “Except the house elves. Who apparently like grumpy, anti-social types.”

“Elves have discerning tastes,” said Hermione. “I assume that’s why they didn’t like me.”

“Right,” said Snape sarcastically. He reached out a hand towards his goblet and drained the  
last dregs of the wine.

Hermione yawned, which then was followed up by another yawn. Her eyes felt itchy. “I’m sorry,” she said to Snape. “But I have to get some sleep.”

“Fine,” said Snape.

“Let’s plan tomorrow a way forward,” said Hermione. “Wait, do elves sleep?”

“Not really,” said Snape. “I like to do it though, you know, to keep in practice.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” said Hermione.

Snape nodded at her. 

She got up from the kitchen table and made her way back to her chambers in Ravenclaw Tower. As she walked away, she turned back to look at the small figure at the table. Snape had remained where he was, staring pensively at the empty wine in front of him. She shook her head in wonderment. This was incredible. A house elf! 

Upon reaching her room, Hermione collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost instantly. 

*

When she awoke, it was late morning and the pale winter sun was already in the sky. Hermione hadn’t had near enough sleep, but she wanted to talk to Snape. 

Unless, she thought, it was a dream. It sort of _felt_ like a dream. 

Snape as a house elf? Ridiculous. Of _course_ it was a dream. 

Hermione threw the blanket back and stepped out of bed and into her slippers. Her flannel pyjamas (covered in cats with hearts for eyes) were pretty warm, so she didn’t need a robe. She walked out, still yawning, into her small outer room to discover Snape sitting on her armchair reading _Poltergeists: Instruments of Chaos or Misunderstood Non-Beings?_. Her other two books were stacked next to him on her little table.

“These aren’t half bad,” said Snape without looking up. “I would have previously asserted that original thought was not one of your strengths, but I stand corrected.”

“Is this kind of creepy you just invited yourself into my chambers?” Hermione asked.

“Technically they aren’t your chambers,” Snape said. “They belong to Hogwarts. And Hogwarts is contracted to the elves. Ipso facto, they’re _my_ chambers and you should ask permission from _me_ to be in them.”

“Contracted to the elves?” Hermione asked as she sat down in armchair opposite. 

Snape snapped his fingers in an almost absentminded way, and a cup of steaming coffee appeared on the table.

“You are the best,” Hermione said as she grabbed the cup greedily and inhaled the scent. “Perfect. This coffee is fantastic.”

“It’s how I like it,” said Snape. He waved nonchalantly and a plate of almond croissants appeared. 

“Oh my god,” said Hermione. “Heaven!” 

She picked up one of the croissants and bit a perfectly flaky end into the delicious sweet centre. “So good,” she moaned through the mouth full of pastry.

“Well, you’re easily satisfied,” said Snape, whose pointed ears were slightly pink. “That’s something to remember.”

“Back to… contracted?” Hermione asked. She felt herself blushing to match Snape’s ears, and decided to steer the conversation back to something that wasn’t suggestive.

“Yes. Contracted,” said Snape. “Their work contract.”

“Wait,” Hermione said. “Elves have work contracts?”

Snape frowned. “Yes. Of course they do.”

“Is it some type of indentured servitude?” Hermione asked.  
“Not at all,” Snape said. “They are paid.”

“In what?” 

“In magic,” Snape said.

Hermione paused, a second croissant halfway to her mouth. “In what way?”

“In return for their domestic work,” Snape said. “The contract stipulates that the elves can syphon magic from any magical being that resides within the household they are contracted to.”

Hermione gaped at him. Snape smirked, a completely ridiculous expression on a house elf, yet somehow reminded Hermione very much of him as a man.

“Shut your mouth, _Hermione_. You’ll catch flies,” Snape said archly. 

“This calls for another croissant,” said Hermione. She rewarded her good rationale with another croissant. “Go on,” she said once she was set up with another butter-laden pastry and her coffee.

“Elf contracts span generations, generations of generations. When the original contracts were signed, I doubt the witches and wizards even understood what they were agreeing to. Elves have strong magic, but their own magical reserves are supplemented by the magic of the household. In that way, they’re limitless in their casting ability and the complexity of what they can attempt. For example, I can access the magic of every single person in this castle whenever I want.”

“But how does this affect the people _in_ the household?” Hermione asked. 

“Barely,” said Snape. “Wizards and witches are so poor at understanding magical energy that they never truly extend themselves in any meaningful way. We don’t take a lot, in any case.”

“Oh! I just thought of something,” said Hermione, who was feeling a growing sickening feeling that definitely was not related to the four pounds of butter she had consumed. 

“What happens to a elf who is fired or freed?” she said, not really wanting to know the answer to the question.

Snape eyed her shrewdly. “They lose access to their household’s magic. Free elves are still powerful, but considerably less so. It’s a devastating blow.”

Hermione dropped her breakfast and put her head in her hands. “Ugh. The _hats_ ,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Snape. “From their perspective, you were trying to cut them off from their magic.”

“I’m an idiot,” Hermione cried.

“Not an idiot,” said Snape. “Just ignorant. Don’t be too hard on yourself. There would be barely anyone that remembers the contracts. And who thinks about house elves in any case? Beyond yourself, albeit in a misguided way,” he added hastily.

“Oh, no,” Hermione said. “Dobby!”

“Yes. He probably preferred to give up the magic to escape the Malfoys. It would have weakened him quite a lot,” Snape said thoughtfully. 

Hermione went quiet as she thought of him fighting the Death Eaters and Apparating everyone out of the Manor. Was that why he couldn’t heal from the knife wound? 

“Sometimes life is a decision between two horrible choices,” said Snape in a quiet voice.

“I guess you’d know all about that,” sniffed Hermione. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that had appeared on her lap. She assumed it came from Snape.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Snape. “I would have given anything for _two_ horrible choices. I often had five or more.”

Hermione laughed through her tears. “At least you kept a sense of humour.”

“Honestly, it’s the only thing I’ve got left,” he grumbled.

Hermione smiled. “It’s a great quality,” she said. 

He shrugged. Hermione picked up her coffee cup to see it had been topped up while she was talking. She glanced over the rim at Snape. His ears pinked again.

“Well, maybe I learnt a _few_ things during my elf years,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picture was linked in the comments of last chapter but here it is again.
> 
> MyWitch drew our wee [Snappy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635896/chapters/52347493). ❤️
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/Hmqb6G7)   
> 


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m so glad you have identified our issue,” said Minerva as she sat perched on the edge of her armchair. She held a cup of tea in her hand, but had not drunk any of it yet. She did peer suspiciously at it every now and then, as if she didn’t quite trust it enough to take a sip.

Hermione, who was happy to give anything a go, particularly if was the ‘anything’ has turned into deliciously strong coffee, took a gulp from her cup and was slightly disappointed to find it was tea.

“Yes,” said Hermione, putting her cup on the table.

“So you’ve manage to negotiate the removal of the poltergeist?” Minerva asked.

“Not exactly,” said Hermione. “It isn’t a poltergeist.”

“Oh?” said Minerva as she took a courageous sip and responded surprised. “Oh, my. Tea!”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I imagine you’ll be able to have your Scotch now as well.”  
Minerva smiled. “Now that’s good news. So what was the problem?”

Hermione rapped her knuckles on the small table between the chairs, and Snape popped out of thin air.

“Good idea,” said Minerva. “Can we please have my bottle of Scotch and two tumblers?”

Snape rolled his eyes, and glared at Hermione meaningfully. She nodded at him.

“Minerva,” said Hermione. “This is Severus Snape.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Minerva.

“The elf!” said Hermione. “It’s Professor Snape.”

Minerva looked at the elf. Then back to Hermione. Then back to the elf again.

“The elf thinks it’s Professor Snape?” she asked.

Snape groaned and banged his head on the table. “I _told_ you,” he complained to Hermione. 

“Be patient,” said Hermione. “It’s actually a weird concept to grasp.”

“Oh, yes,” said Snape sarcastically. “A woman who can turn into a cat needs time to process the suggestion that a man turned into an elf. How stupid of me. Of course. By all means.” He flapped a skinny wrist at her. 

There was a long silence.

“Sorry,” said Hermione. “Being an elf hasn’t changed the fact he’s also a git. Apparently gitness transcends the human/elf existence.”

“Well, excuse _me_ for being cross about being stuck in a species that I didn’t ask for,” said Snape grumpily.

The older witch watched the exchange without a word. She then turned and looked at the elf with an open mouth. “Severus?” she asked.

Snape sniffed contemptuously. “ _Finally_ ,” he said in a long, suffering tone.

“I don’t understand,” Minerva said. “How did it happen? How are you alive?”

“He’s alive _because_ it happened,” said Hermione. “The elves did it to save him from the bite of Nagini.”

“Anyway,” said Snape. “I’d rather _not_ be an elf anymore. So if you could transfigure me that would be great.”

“Wait a minute,” said Minerva. “ _You_ were behind the pranks?”

“A cry for help,” Hermione interrupted smoothly. “To try and get your attention.”

She saw Snape’s side-eye but ignored it. 

“Oh, Severus,” Minerva said with a sob. “I’m so sorry. How terrible. You were trying so hard to get us to realise your predicament. How tragic.”

“Er… Yes,” said Snape. “That’s right. The whole time. That’s _definitely_ the only thing I was doing.”

He and Hermione shared an amused glance. He put a thin finger to his mouth in the universal _shhh_! gesture. 

Hermione patted Minerva on the knee. “Yes. It’s all very terrible. Now how can we go about transfiguring him back?” she asked.

Snape clapped his hands. “Right away. Let’s go.”

Minerva sat back in her chair. “Transfigure you _back_? I’m sorry. It’s far beyond my skills. I wouldn’t even attempt it.”

“Really?” asked Hermione.

Snape collapsed to the floor and lay on his back. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m an elf forever. Never again to see the contents of a top shelf.”

“Could the elves not turn you back into a human?” asked Minerva.

“Never again will I wear trousers,” continued Snape mournfully from the floor.

“Apparently they don’t see the point of _not_ being an elf,” said Hermione.

“Never again will I ask out Rosmerta, and be summarily rejected,” the thin, reedy voice moaned.

Minerva rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she’ll still reject you if you give it a go as an elf,” said Minerva. “You’ve always underestimated yourself, Severus.”

“Let _me_ talk to them,” offered Hermione.

“Good plan,” said Snape, still lying on the carpet. “They _really_ like you. What could possibly go wrong?”

“You’re being pretty snarky to someone trying to help you,” said Hermione.

This is my default setting,” said Snape defensively. “Elf or human.”

“Well _my_ default setting is interfering busybody, so I guess we’ll just see how it works out for each other,” snapped Hermione.

Minerva sipped her tea and looked between them. “This is nice,” she said. “Like old times.”

“I’m off,” said Hermione. “Look after Professor Snape.”

Minerva peeked over the arm of her chair at the prostrate elf on the carpet. 

“I don’t suppose the Scotch is still out of the question?” she asked hopefully.

As she left Hermione heard a drawn-out sigh and snap of fingers before Minerva’s satisfied voice rang out.

“Oh lovely, I do like a Speyside origin.”

The kitchen was abuzz with elves preparing various types of food, as well as chatting with each other. There was a sudden and pointed silence as Hermione entered the room.

“Er, hello,” she said. “I wanted to talk to someone about Professor Snape. He’d like to be a human again.”

The silence continued.

“He’s very grateful for you saving his life,” she tried, “but he’d like to go back to being a person… um… if that’s all right with you.”

“We will not free him,” said one of the elves. It was wearing a dark-purple, velvet, smock. “He will no longer have access to the magic. He would be weakened.”

“But he _isn’t_ an elf,” protested Hermione. “Not really.”

“He is,” said the elf. “He became an elf the day we saved him.”

“So if you turn him back, why is that bad?” Hermione asked.

“He will no longer be bound by our contract,” said the elf. “He will not be able to use the magic from the castle to keep himself healed.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “Right.”

She frowned as she thought about the situation.

“So,” she said slowly. “If Professor Snape had access to magic _outside_ Hogwarts, would that work?” 

The elf simply stared at her. 

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Hermione said. “I have an idea.”

She made her way back up to Minerva’s office, where she found the witch and Snape sitting on the armchairs, both drinking scotch and eating Roquefort cheese and oat biscuits.

“How’d the interfering busybodiness work out for you?” asked Snape lazily from his chair.

“Perfect,” snapped Hermione. “Minerva can you please open the Floo? I’m returning to the Ministry.”

“Of course,” said Minerva.  
The tips of Snape’s ears drooped. “Oh,” he said. “You’re leaving.”

“I assumed you’d be overjoyed at that news,” said Hermione.

“I would have thought so, too,” said Snape thoughtfully. “Apparently not.”

“Time heals all wounds,” Minerva said flippantly as she sipped her scotch.

“Says the person in a human body,” Snape said. “My neck is sore from holding up my bloody head. I don’t know how the elves do it.”

“I think they do it silently,” said Minerva. “If that helps.”  
Snape glared at her, and Minerva toasted him with a gleeful laugh.

“This appears to be an opportune moment for me to leave,” said Hermione. “I shall return in a day or so.”

“Excellent,” said Minerva. 

“Go on. Leave me then,” said Snape pessimistically. “I’m used to it.”

“Perhaps another bottle of Scotch would help?” Hermione heard Minerva ask as the the Floo flared green and she stepped through. 

Hermione made her way to her office, pushed a large stack of research papers to the side, and began furiously scribbling on a parchment. She only had one idea. But she thought it might work. She folded up the paper into a plane and sent it flying through the air.

She only had to wait ten minutes when the reply zoomed back and nose-dived into her water glass. She read the slightly soggy parchment and nodded to herself with satisfaction. 

_Right._

Time to draft a contract. 

The problem with Wizarding Britain, Hermione had long since decided, was its inability to move past a period in history someone between 1875 and 1923. The regrettable fashion and the attitudes towards women and science were all stark reminders of this. 

Occasionally parts of society were dragged resentfully into modern day, but this only served to heighten the absurdity of the other outdated traditions. Hermione had begun her career in the Ministry, but had been so frustrated by the system and its creaking, crawling pace of progressive thinking that she’d taken a year off in disgust.

During that year, Hermione had decided to research non-beings. They had absolutely zero rights in society, most people knew squat about them, and they didn’t much like conversation. All these things fitted perfectly with what Hermione was interested in.

Over that year, she’d written her first book. And no one was more surprised as she was when it was published to rave reviews, and she was subsequently offered a position with the Spirit Division. It had been heaven—had heaven existed, of course. There was lots of things to research, fascinating texts to argue about with others, and the only people hired by the Division were passionate, intellectual oddballs. It was her dream job.

Harry and Ron sometimes met her for lunch in the Ministry hall. They didn’t talk about work much, as she found the Auror work a bit dull and both the boys (men?) freely admitted that found her case load slightly terrifying. Which had been a shame, as Hermione had only got to tell them about one completely amazing case, where a Boggart had got itself trapped in a room with a Dementor. Both creatures had down their best to take down the other, but had reached a stalemate when it had become obvious that Boggarts couldn’t be unhappy and dementors had no fear. Hermione had gone in and captured them both, but not before the Boggart had turned into an elderly version of herself with about twenty Kneazles crawling over her, threading their ways through the bandy legs of her older self.

That just went to show how easily Boggarts could be fooled. Hermione kept _that_ little vision in her head as her Worst Fear, when actuality it was her dream. Reaching old age in good health and having lots of lovely cats like Crookshanks as company? It sounded positively dreamy. She’d learnt early on in the Spirit Division that tricking the Boggart was a handy skill, and also a nice little motivator for retirement.  
In any case, all this had inured in Hermione a backbone of titanium. She’d pushed through legislation, policies, guidelines, and procedures in the Spirit Division and up through the Ministry with the grim determination previously unseen in the Wizarding public service. Minister Shacklebolt’s assistant paled when he saw Hermione approach with any type of paper in her hand, and he kept Shacklebolt’s diary free every Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock precisely. Just for her. It was nice to know she could still put the fear of Merlin into the hearts of wizards. Even veterans like Kingsley, who had fought against Death Eaters almost his whole career, but wilted a little when she shoved thirty foot long scrolls of anti-discrimination amendments under his nose.

Hermione checked her watch.

Five minutes to three.

Excellent. 

She headed for the Minister’s office as fast as she could, taking the elevator instead of the stairs and jogging a little along the final corridor so she got there in time.

“Hello Ryusei!” Hermione called out jovially.

Kingsley’s assistant choked on the coffee he was drinking. “Hermione! Er… I didn’t think we’d see you today. Word is, you were still at Hogwarts,” he stammered.

“No,” said Hermione. “I’ve got something for the Minister.”

Ryusei sighed. “Of course you do,” he said. “In you go.”

“Thank you!” Hermione said, walking forward past Ryusei’s neat desk and into the office.

Kingsley was at his own desk, feet up on the surface and reading the _Daily Prophet_. He was also eating a giant, chocolate-chip cookie rather than a respectable crispy biscuit. His eyes widened over the paper when he saw her.

“Er… Hermione! I thought you were at Hogwarts!” he said, putting down the paper and hastily shaking the crumbs from the front of his robe. 

“I was,” said Hermione. “And now I’m here. I have a contract for you.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “What kind of contract?” he asked somewhat suspiciously.

“Standard contract between beings and the Minister,” said Hermione. “I’ve received approval from their division by the way. It’s all in order.”

“Of course it is,” sighed Kingsley as he put on his glasses. “All right, pass it over so I can have a look.”

“I brought a quill with me,” said Hermione sweetly. “Just in case you wanted to sign it straight away.”

Kingsley sighed again, and reached for the quill.


	6. Chapter 6

When Hermione returned to Hogwarts a few days later, she went directly to the kitchens.

It was the twenty-third of December, and even down the hallway she could smell a delicious mix of spices and many wonderful fruity, rummy smells. It smelt like Christmas. It smelt like festivity. She smiled and hugged herself a little tighter. Beyond Harry, she didn’t really have a family to spend Christmas with, and the Weasleys were lovely, but a little bit of them went a long way. 

Besides, it was a bit awkward being the proverbial third wheel, and Molly always ended up having one gin fizz too many and then tried to set her up with George. Eek. George was okay. But she’d already ticked “Shag a Weasley” off her bucket list and really didn’t feel any great desire to re-experience it. It had been nice, but it certainly hadn’t been “find a fantastic first edition copy of her favourite book in a thrift shop” nice.

When she entered the kitchen, the smells were even more fantastic. She couldn’t help sucking in a gorgeous lungful of the scent of gingerbread. Mmm, delicious.

The elves obviously noticed her, as the bustling frenzy of the kitchen halted and everything was oddly silent. Hermione at one stage in her life wanted to make an impression when she entered a room, but this certainly wasn’t what she’d envisioned.

“Hat Girl,” greeted the elf in the purple velvet as it popped into existence beside her.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m here about Professor… er… Mister…er… um… Snape. I’m here about Snape.”

“Poor Snappy,” said Dippy, appearing on the other side of the table, resplendent in the striped pillowcase. 

“Is he alright?” Hermione asked in concern.

Dippy motioned to the larder. Hermione walked cautiously across the room and opened the door. Snape was sprawled asleep in a basket, curled around a pumpkin and hugging a bottle of wine. 

“Snappy!” called Dippy. “Hat Girl is here for you.”

“Sod off,” said Snape without opening his eyes.

“Lovely,” said Hermione.

He opened his eyes which were large _and_ bloodshot. “You’re back.”

“I am,” said Hermione.

“Are you back to gloat that I’m still a fucking elf?” Snape groaned. “And even not really that because apparently my ability to be unattractive to the opposite sex has managed to follow me even in elf form.“ 

“Well, I don’t believe that,” said Hermione. “I thought the statue of you was very shaggable.”

Snape sat up in the basket. “Thank you. Given I’ll never be a man again I shall always claim it was based on reality.”

“Perhaps we can test that theory,” said Hermione.

She pulled a scroll out of her bag and unrolled it onto the table. The elf in velvet looked at it, gave her an almost comically double-take, then looked at it again.

“When was this signed?” the elf asked.

“About two days ago,” said Hermione. “I just finished all the appropriate ratification and filing. It’s all in place.”

Other elves materialised and gathered around, all reading the scroll silently.

“What’s going on out there? Are you boring everyone? They’ve gone very quiet!” Snape shouted from the larder.

“I found your school diary!” Hermione called back.

There was a pop and a wild looking Snape appeared. “Where? Give it back!”

He scowled at Hermione who was doubled up in laughter. “Oh, very funny.”

“It was _sort_ of funny,” she wheezed.

Snape cracked a smile. “ _Passably_ funny,” he said. “If I’d known you were this wicked I’d have tried to get you back to Hogwarts years ago.”

“Well you won’t need to,” said Hermione. “I think I’ve solved your issue.”

“What?” he asked.

Hermione looked at the elf in velvet who nodded. She grinned.

“It’s a contract between elves and the Minister of Magic. It provides licence for any free elf to have access to magic from the general populace. All very proper. All very legal,” Hermione explained.

“Oh,” said Snape. “So that means?”

“It means they can change you back,” said Hermione. “Even a free elf maintains their magic.”

“You glorious girl,” said Snape excitedly. “I could kiss your clever face.”

Hermione felt herself go a bit hot. Snape was a bit prickly, but he was sarcastically funny, and she _did_ like being called glorious and clever. 

“All right, Snappy,” sighed the elf in velvet. 

“I’ll miss you Snappy,” sobbed Dippy.

Snape patted the weeping elf awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’ll likely get over it when you remember how horrid I am,” he said in a comforting tone. 

“How long will it take?” Hermione asked. “Will we need to gather all the elves together? Perhaps do some research?”

“It is done,” said the elf in velvet dismissively.

Hermione turned to look at Snape and immediately shut her eyes.

“Oh! Um…” she said.

“Yes. I appear to be naked except for a pillowslip,” said Snape. “Trust me, I am very aware of this fact.”

With her eyes still shut, Hermione removed her robe and passed it in the direction of Snape. She felt him take it from her hands. She waited for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said, and she opened her eyes.

Professor Snape—the man and not the elf—was standing in the middle of the kitchen in Transfigured black robes. He’d done a good job, and he almost looked like his old self, except for the bare feet and forearms. 

“We should probably go see Minerva,” suggested Hermione.

“I suppose we should,” said Snape. “Thank you,” he said to the elves. “For saving me, and for letting me sleep in the pantry basket.”

“Live well, Snappy,” said the elf in velvet. The other elves appeared largely unbothered, except for Dippy, who still was sniffing somewhat.

Hermione walked next to Snape’s tall figure as they made their way to Minerva’s office. She felt awkward. Talking to an elf was one thing, but talking to a man whom she was quite intimidated by was another. And despite her quick reflexes, she had seen enough to suggest the changes he’d made to the statue in the garden hadn’t been _all_ over exaggerated. It was enough to make a witch a bit weak at the knees really.

But she was made of stronger stuff, wasn’t she? 

Minerva, predictably, was in raptures, partly due to Snape’s return to humanity, partly because she was pleased the pranks were over, and partly because she’d drunk a bottle of Scotch and was in an excitable mood.

“I’ll make up some new quarters for you at once,” said Minerva. “Not the dungeons, of course, Horace is in there. And not near the Astronomy Tower, either. I’ll think of something.”

Hermione shot a look at Snape, who appeared to take the news with glum resignation.

“And we always need professors. With your background, you could run any of the classes! It’ll be like it was before,” Minerva continued.

Hermione couldn’t help but notice Snape looked even more depressed by _that_ news. She decided to insert herself into the conversation unnecessarily, a feeling that was not wholly unfamiliar to her.

“Minerva, I’m sorry, but Prof—I mean _Severus_ and I have already come to an arrangement,” she said. 

“You have?” Minerva said at the same time as Snape mouthed _We Have?_ at her.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “He is going to write the preeminent text on house elves. Since he’ll be using my publisher, we agreed it would be easier if he stayed in my spare room while he writes.”

“Oh,” said Minerva.

“It makes sense,” Snape interceded smoothly. “And _Hermione_ even offered me use of her editor.”

“Naturally,” Hermione said. “And in return, _Severus_ is going to do a bit of domestic work around the house.”

_Checkmate_ , she signalled to him with her eyes.

He conceded her victory with an arched eyebrow. 

“I’m disappointed for the school, but I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said Minerva.

“We should get going,” said Snape… er… Severus. “Before my inspiration runs out.”

“We Floo through to the Ministry, and then I can Apparate us from there,” suggested Hermione.

“Or, better yet…” said Severus. He put a light hand on her arm and snapped his fingers. Hermione realised they were in her house.

“Wow,” she said.

“I was hoping I could still do that,” Severus said in a satisfied tone.

“Wow,” Hermione repeated. 

“Still easily impressed, I see,” Severus commented. 

“I wouldn’t say easily,” said Hermione. “But that was pretty impressive. Anyway, let me show you your room. I hope you didn’t mind me barging in on that conversation, but it didn’t seem like you wanted to stay at Hogwarts.”

She walked up the stairs to the first floor and showed Severus the guest room. Hermione didn’t really have a lot of guests, but she’d made it up very nicely on the chance that she would. One day. Maybe.

“Thank you,” said Severus. “It’s no basket of pumpkins in a cold, food-cupboard, but it’ll do.”

Hermione laughed. “I can always change the decor if you’d like.”

“Please don’t,” Severus said.

“Would you consider writing the book?” Hermione asked. “I think you would do an excellent job, and besides, who better to write it?”

“I’m definitely writing the book,” Severus said firmly. “I’m not going back to teaching and I’m not keen to go into potions.”

“You can borrow my laptop,” Hermione said. “I’ll set it up for you.”

“Excellent,” said Severus. “And while you are doing that, you can explain what a laptop is.”

Hermione was not surprised to discover Severus was an extremely fast learner, and after only around twenty minutes on the laptop, he batted her hands away and began typing at an impressive rate. He was perched at her kitchen table and refused to move, citing that the discomfort of the chair made him feel nostalgic. 

“I have to go in to work to submit my report,” she said, and saw his face blanch. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. Just that there was no poltergeist.”

“I’d certainly like to delay my reengagement with the world as long as possible,” said Severus.

“Fine by me,” said Hermione. “But I _will_ mention your book to my editor.”

“Tell them Snappy the elf is writing it,” Severus said. “An angry elf with attachment issues.”

Hermione grinned. “All right, Snappy,” she said. “Don’t forget to save!” she added as she walked for her front door.

“How do I save?” Severus yelled frantically, and she laughed as she returned to the table.

*

The Spirit Division was pretty quiet. 

There weren’t a lot of employees, they were the smallest division in the Ministry, and everyone was a little bonkers. Of course Hermione loved it. Eccentric, odd intellectuals were her dream colleagues. They’d wander around discussing strange little tidbits they’d bound in dusty books hidden within haunted libraries. And of course everyone baked, or if they didn’t, frequently brought in sugar-dusted piles of pastries or perfectly sliced vegetables with cheese. 

There was a note on Hermione’s desk which read ‘remind me to tell you about this new book I found’. The note wasn’t signed. Of course. And Hermione shrugged. She’d find out who it was eventually. Nothing moved too fast in the Spirit Division. At the heart of it, where were non-beings going to go? They had all of eternity to get to it.

Hermione carefully competed her report and sent it flying towards the central records section. True to her promise, she’d made no mention of Severus, and instead had written up the facts of the situation: the odd events had been caused by a house elf. 

The next two hours sped by reasonably quickly as she went through her notes and case requests. There were three new cases to investigate, and they all looked interesting. A Boggart that had taken up residence in the changing room of the Chudley Cannons (finally a case Harry and Ron would actually want to hear about). A new spectre in Westminster Abbey, and _something_ that had decided to push over Stonehenge in its entirety. 

It was a satisfied Hermione that caught the Floo home and walked the streets to her house. She didn’t feel like Apparating. It was snowing lightly and she was thinking she should probably get some groceries. She wasn’t quite sure what to cook for Severus, and was a little nervous about doing so. Perhaps something simple. Like toast. Or more adventurous, like a cheese toastie, or more exotic, like a Welsh rarebit. 

Hermione had a range of ideas of dinner that all circulated around cooked bread and things on that cooked bread. Beyond that, everything was considered Cordon Bleu, in her mind, anyway,

She carefully kicked the ice off her boots and walked inside, tucking the boots neatly on her rack and walking in her thick socks into the lounge room. 

She stopped dead.

It was immaculate.

Everyone inch of space was free from dust, even the tops of her books, which even she had given up trying to charm. The carpet no longer had those dots from where she’d sneezed hot chocolate over it one night and the soft, woollen throw she had on her couch had been mended. There were fresh flowers on the side-table.

“Er, Severus?” Hermione called out cautiously. “Did someone break into my house and clean it?”

“What are you on about?” said Severus from the kitchen doorway. “ _I_ cleaned it. I thought you’d mentioned domestic work was expected as part of our deal.”

“I was joking!” Hermione said, a little aghast.”Of course you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Certainly not in any type of indentured servitude kind of way.”

“It’s a bit like riding a broom,” said Severus airily. “You never forget. I was an elf for ten years. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you. Let me treat you to a dinner that isn’t grilled something on bread,” suggested Hermione. “What do you feel like?”

“I already _made_ dinner,” said Severus. “Come on, it’s getting cold.”

A bemused Hermione walked into her kitchen to discover Severus serving a cheese soufflé with salad. She gaped.

“Oh, my!” she said.

“They probably took me about five years to get the knack,” said Severus. “It’s a certain type of wrist movement that stops it sinking.”

Hermione sat down and took a bite. It was exquisite. She moaned and closed her eyes as she chewed.

“This is amazing. Incredible,” she said to Severus and opened her eyes again.

“Still impressed, then, I see,” a pink-cheeked Severus said.

“Maybe, instead of me being easily impressed, you’re actually a pretty impressive type of person,” Hermione said as she loaded up her fork again.

“Sure,” said Severus and he rolled his eyes and took a bite of a tomato.

“Did you get much done today?” she asked.

“I got obsessed with the numbers that counted the words,” Severus said.

“Writers do that,” said Hermione. “It’s a common problem.”

“I drafted out the chapter structure, and knocked together about five thousand words on my first chapter,” Severus said.

“Hmmm,” said Hermione.

“Is that a good or bad _hmm?_ ” Severus asked.

“I’m afraid it’s terminal,” said Hermione. 

“What is?”

“Your impressiveness,” she said. “You may as well accept it.”

“Have some wine, Hermione,” said Severus. “And let me enjoy not drinking that horrid stuff Minerva is addicted to.”

He poured two glasses of wine. Hermione pick hers up and grinned. She couldn’t believe the direction her mind was taking, but she was seriously thinking how lovely it was to come home to a clean house, and nice dinner and to a pleasant dinner companion. Severus was funny, clever and just that little bit acerbic. He was already the best housemate she’d had.

“What do you normally do for Christmas?” he was asking.

“Oh, just eat two Yule logs by myself and watch Christmas television,” said Hermione. 

“Not _this_ Christmas,” Severus said in a scandalised tone. “I’ll make roast beef with all the trimmings.”

“Yorkshire puddings _and_ gravy?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Gallons of it,” he said. “I’m a dab hand. I might whip up a Christmas pud as well.”

Hermione felt weak at the knees. “I can look through your words if you want,” she offered.

“A fair swap,” he said with a shrug.

Hermiome lifted her wine in a toast.

“Here’s to you, Snappy,” she said. “You’re going to be a bestseller.”

Snape smirked and clinked her glass to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd last chapter. *sob*


	7. Chapter 7

Time passed, as it does, and Hermione felt that she and Severus had fallen into a routine, as people do. She certainly wasn’t complaining. 

It was a nice routine. 

It was a comfortable routine.  
And she found that she quite enjoyed it.

On weekdays, she’d go to work, with either a packed lunch courtesy of Severus or a box of something delicious he had made the evening before, and he would spend the day writing. In the evenings, they’d make dinner together (she was trying very hard to expand her repertoire beyond toasted sandwiches). They would sit on the couch and talk, or, on some occasions, watch Hermione’s television. She couldn’t quite see the reasoning behind it, but they discovered that Severus had a penchant for B grade horror movies. Perhaps he liked watching horrible things in the comfort of a living room, knowing they were fake and could be turned off at any time, as opposed to the real horror he had been exposed to for most of his life.

They were on the couch in their usual pose, Severus reclining but upright, and Hermione lying on the couch with her legs on his lap. A bowl of popcorn was balanced precariously on her knees.

“It doesn’t really make make sense,” Severus said abruptly.

Hermione crunched on some salty, buttery kernels as she considered the movie they were watching. “Not really,” she said. “I mean… She’s apparently never even seen a car but all of a sudden one homicidal maniac is on her tail and—BAM!—she’s slamming through gears like a professional rally driver.”

“I didn’t mean the film,” said Severus. “Which is dross, by the way.”

“ _You_ picked it!” Hermione said. 

“I meant our living conditions,” he said in a stiff tone.

Hermione felt her stomach drop away. She’d been expecting this for months, and trying to prepare herself for it, but none of that had apparently worked.

She _liked_ living with Severus. She liked his dry sense of humour and propensity for putting cracked black pepper on everything. She liked the way he laughed at her jokes and listened to her when she complained about work. She liked how he made her lemon tea, set her up on the couch when she had terrible cramps, and retuned later that night with a healing potion. She liked his intelligence. She liked his smile. And she liked the way his shirts rode up at the back, exposing a thin line of bare flesh when he bent over to get something out of a drawer. She liked that a _lot_. 

He had got closer and closer to finishing the first draft of his book, and it was good. Really good. Really, _really_ good. When he finished a chapter, he’d give it to her and then hover nervously around her, making tea and offering biscuits while she read it. And Hermione would drink the tea, eat the biscuits, and then they’d discuss what he’d written. He always listened to her and, more often than not, took on her suggestions. Sometimes they’d still be arguing when she was trying to get ready for bed, and in the morning over coffee he’d hand over a neatly written list of his counterarguments. 

Hermione knew when Severus completed the book, he’d leave. 

And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. 

And she definitely wasn’t sure how she felt about him. 

Just when she was sort-of trying to figure everything out, he was going to leave. 

“Oh,” she said out loud. “What about them?”

“I was thinking about the space in the house. You could really use a study, and I’m using a room that’s the perfect size for one,” said Severus.

“I don’t mind,” said Hermione hastily. “I like working at the kitchen table.”

“It’s not a very good use of space,” said Severus. “Besides, you were talking about starting your next book, and I’m almost finished my first draft.”

“Maybe I’m sick of books,” said Hermione. “There are more than enough books out there in the world, anyway.”

Severus looked down at her, his hand resting on her thigh. 

Despite her dithering in other areas of her life, Hermione was _very_ sure how _that_ was making her feel. 

“All right, whatever non-being is pretending to be Hermione Granger, let’s just stop it right now,” he said. And as he spoke he tickled the insole of her foot. 

She giggled.

“Ah, now that sounds like her,” purred Severus.

“I don’t want you to leave,” said Hermione baldly. 

“Leave?” said Severus. “Where am I going exactly?”

“I thought you wanted me to use your room as a study?” Hermiome asked.

“Ah, yes,” said Severus. “I just wondered. With the rooms. Perhaps it would make more sense if we…” He paused.

“If we...” Hermione said, prompting him to finish his thoughts.

“If we shared one instead,” he finished, suddenly intent on the television again. 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What?” she asked. He’d never even _kissed_ her. Sure, they’d snuggled on the couch, and he’d put his arm around her the times when she complained she was cold. But still.

What was he thinking?

It wasn’t as if _she_ hadn’t thought about it. Because she had. Quite a lot. She’d wondered if his fingers would move as expertly around her body as on the keyboard. And he managed to get everything just so perfectly _right_ in the kitchen, maybe he could be like that in the bedroom. She’d had many thoughts that revolved around Severus and her body. But she’d been too nervous to say anything. He was much older than her, and he probably saw her as so much younger and maybe even silly. Or frumpy. Certainly not sexy.

“Nothing,” Severus said. “Just late night rantings. Ignore me.”

“No way, Snappy,” Hermione said. “I heard what you said.”

“Heard what?” Severus asked innocently.

Hermione sat up, which meant she was practically sitting in Severus’s lap. 

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes I think we should share a room,” Hermione said.

“This is moving pretty fast for me,” said Severus. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Oh, don’t be horrible!” Hermione laughed.

“I can’t help it if I’m horrible,” said Severus in a wounded tone. “It’s my nature.”

“Liar,” said Hermione. “You’re actually secretly lovely.”

“Only to you,” said Severus with uncharacteristic seriousness. 

Hermione didn’t know how to respond. They were only three words, but they lit something inside her. Suddenly she was able to answer every question that had been dancing around in her head for months. 

She knew how she felt about the possibility Severus might leave.

She knew how she felt about him.

And bowl of popcorn be damned, she put her arms around Severus and kissed him square on his astonished mouth. His mouth didn’t stay astonished for long, and it enthusiastically responded to her own lips.

“Hermione,” Severus said in a low voice that made her body throb.

“Yes, Severus,” she whispered back to him.

“There’s popcorn down my trousers ,” he said.

She giggled.

“I’m serious. It’s wedged down in there,” he said indignantly.

“Come on,” said Hermione. “How about a shower to get the butter off you.”

“I don’t _feel _like having a shower,” said Severus.__

__“I’ll wash your back,” Hermione said suggestively._ _

__The light clicked on in Severus’s eyes. “Oh, I _see_ ,” he said. “Perfect.”  
It turned out there was a lot more than popcorn down Severus’s trousers that required Hermione’s attention. _ _

__And after exhausting the hot water and two Heating Charms, they finally were clean, satisfied, and quite sleepy. It didn’t take long to move Severus’s meagre belongings into her— _their_ —room, and Hermione tucked him in with an unnecessarily long kiss before she went to turn off the TV and Vanish the popcorn._ _

__When she returned to the room, she found a sleeping Severus, curled around a pillow and clutching a bottle of wine he must have conjured while dreaming._ _

__She quietly laughed into her hand. Her perfect Snappy._ _

__Hermione gently removed the wine from his clutches, put it to one side, and replaced its presence in his arms with herself. He hugged her tightly against him and nuzzled into her neck._ _

__Some very light snores emanated from the extraordinary and wonderfully perfectly sized nose (she was a biased judge, to be sure) that was tucked near her ear. Hermione sighed in happiness. She was a Glamorous, Powerful Witch Who Did Not Give a Fuck, a witch who probably was also Head Over Heels, but she didn’t mind one bit._ _

__Even if those heels _were_ six inch patent-red stilettos._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smaller chapter to end.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> And I hope you all have a little Snappy in your lives. 😉


End file.
